


Ingredients

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 1 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . I'm off to bed now, so Chapter 2 will go up in the morning, California time. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

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**Ingredients (1/6)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[  
____spacer____](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ff1rc/)  
  
---  
  
**  
One  
**

 He reread the passage for the tenth time, as if that might change the words. It didn’t. “Fuck,” he moaned as he sank into a chair, then looked about guiltily to make sure nobody had heard. But nobody else was in his flat, of course, so he removed his glasses and repeated the word, louder this time. It didn’t help him feel any better.

It took him another fifteen minutes of sulking before he sighed, put his glasses back on, and set the book down. He stood and slipped on his shoes and gathered a few items into a plastic bag. He found his keys on the kitchen counter and left his flat. He decided to walk; it wasn’t far, and he wished to do whatever he could to prolong the inevitable.

It was one of those hot days in which the light glared and made everything seem washed out and flat. This time of year it was hard to believe there was such a thing as rain and cool breezes. He’d nearly forgotten the feel of fog on his skin, of water droplets condensing in his hair and eyelashes and dripping down his collar. Small children zoomed about on bicycles and teenagers listened to horrible music while they washed their cars in their driveways, as if Sunnydale were a normal town.

It was no cooler in the cemetery. The grass looked parched and yellowed and the scattered trees all drooped. He noted a grave with disturbed dirt and automatically made a mental note to tell Buffy, and then he corrected himself as the familiar grief stabbed his heart.

He’d assumed that Spike would be asleep, so he was surprised to find the vampire slumped on the sofa, watching something on television. Spike barely glanced his way as he entered.

“T’s not fair. Need an invite to go into your flat, but your lot comes sashaying into my home all the time without so much as bloody knocking.”

“It’s not a home, Spike. It’s a crypt.”

Spike shrugged. “Tomb sweet tomb.” He watched for a moment as a woman on the telly sobbed in the arms of a tall, older man. “Well, what is it?” Spike finally said.

“I…need your help.”

Spike barked out a laugh at that. “That’s lovely, Rupert. But my calendar is booked and I don’t need any dosh, so you can just sod off.”

“It’s to do with Dawn.”

That got Spike’s attention, as Giles had known it would. He’d seen the fresh piles of cigarette butts near the Summers' house drive, and heard reports from the others that Spike trailed along whenever Dawn went out at night. 

Spike turned his head to look fully at Giles. “I won’t stay away from her, if that’s what you’re after. I promised Buffy, and I might be a demon, but I’m a demon of my word.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Well? Out with it. ‘M missing my program.” He gestured towards the telly.

“A Xritonik demon has arrived in town. It came to kill the Slayer.”

The sound that escaped Spike’s throat didn’t even resemble a laugh. “Bit late for that, innit?”

“When it discovered that she…. When it could not complete its task, it vowed to do away with her family instead.”

Spike’s jaw worked. “Fine. You tell me what it looks like and I’ll get rid of it.”

“It can’t be killed through conventional means. A spell is needed, with some ingredients that are rather…difficult to acquire.”

Spike huffed impatiently. “What do you need, Rupert?”

Giles felt his cheeks flush and he fought the urge to take off his glasses and polish them. “Vampire semen,” he said.

Spike’s eyebrows flew up. “Say again?”

“Vampire semen. The spell requires fresh vampire semen.”

Spike’s face split into a broad grin. “Sounds like a poor excuse to get into my trousers, Rupert.”

“Do get over yourself, Spike. You’re not nearly as irresistible as you think.”

But Spike’s leer didn’t fade. “And I expect you must collect this valuable ingredient yourself?”

Giles couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “No. You can do the…collection. I’ve brought a receptacle.” He dug in his bag and pulled out a small bronze bowl. He tossed it to Spike, who caught it and looked at it briefly.

“Right, then,” Spike said. “If you’ll see yourself out, I’ll start collecting straight away. Don’t reckon you brought any porn with you?

“No, I didn’t. And…I must remain in the room. There’s…a ritual.”

Spike’s smirk returned and Giles wished fervently that his own life had taken a different turn and he’d ended up a musician instead.

“Well?” Spike said. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“I need…just a few minutes to prepare.”

Spike shrugged again and turned back to watching the telly. Giles removed a piece of chalk from his bag and drew a large pentagram on the stone floor. At each of the five points he placed a squat red candle, which he lit, and a tiny porcelain bowl, into which he poured a mixture of herbs and bottled water.

“Smells like cranberries,” Spike said from right beside Giles, and Giles jumped a bit. He hadn’t noticed Spike coming up behind him.

“It’s the candles. They were the only red ones I could find.”

“I don’t have to toss off in there, do I? Doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“No. I stand in the center. You can be wherever you like, as long as I can see you.” He rather mumbled that last bit, but he could tell from Spike’s snort that the vampire heard him perfectly well. “Are you ready, then?”

Spike nodded and then popped the button on his jeans. Giles turned even redder and began to unbutton his own shirt.

There went Spike’s eyebrows again.

Giles sighed. “I must be undressed.”

“Then perhaps I won’t need that porn after all,” Spike said, smiling wickedly.

Giles took off his clothing as quickly and efficiently as possible, and he folded it and placed it neatly on a chair. By the time he looked up again, Spike was completely naked, leaning up against the wall with a cigarette in his hand, looking like a rent-boy. He showed no shame or embarrassment about his nudity at all. “You’ve kept yourself fit, Watcher. Must be all the running from monsters.”

Giles ignored him and stepped into the pentagram, careful not to smudge the chalk. The floor was wonderfully cool under his bare feet, and it occurred to him that there were advantages to living in a mausoleum.

Spike stubbed his cigarette out against the wall and didn’t simply flick the butt away. Instead, he walked over to a small metal bucket by the sofa and dropped it in. Giles must have looked surprised, because Spike said, “’M flammable, yeah? Makes sense to take care.” Then he yanked a cushion from the sofa and dropped it on the floor next to the wall. He collapsed gracefully onto it, his back against the wall, his knees bent and legs splayed indecently in front of him. He looked at Giles expectantly.

“The bowl,” Giles said.

Spike looked confused for a moment, then smiled and stood and fetched the brass receptacle from where he’d left it beside the sofa. A second later and he was again slouched on the cushion.

“You can begin whenever you like,” Giles said. “Just be certain you remember to, erm, catch the results in the bowl.”

“It would be a shame to have to go again, wouldn’t it?” Spike grinned.

Giles began to chant. It was a very old incantation in some kind of bastardized Sumerian, but it was also quite simple. As soon as he began to speak, Spike moved his left hand slowly down his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles, until he came to his groin. His eyes never left Giles as he wrapped his long fingers around his soft cock and began to stroke.

Giles’s voice faltered just a bit, but he continued chanting.

Spike’s cock very quickly became erect. It was proportionate to the rest of him, somewhat slender and not exceptionally long, but pleasantly shaped, with a bright pink crown peeking out from his retracted foreskin. His balls were high and rounded, the pebbly skin lightly sprinkled with pale hairs. His head fell back against the wall with a thump and his legs spread even wider; his brows were drawn together in a small frown of concentration. Giles had always known Spike was a beautiful creature, although he’d rarely permitted himself to acknowledge that consciously. Spike’s beauty had increased Giles’s antipathy toward him; it had always seemed so wrong that such loveliness should be attached to something so evil. And sometimes, mostly after a drink or two, Giles had found himself wondering what it would have been like to meet William the man, before he was turned, when he was young and soft and innocent.

It was that last unwelcome thought more than anything else that made Giles’s own cock fill and harden now, so that it jutted out stiffly below his belly. Spike’s eyes widened a bit, then the corner of his mouth twitched. Without stopping the pumping of his left hand, he moved his right hand down, between his legs, and he kneaded and pulled at his balls.

Giles continued the chant, words that had been inscribed by people whose civilization had withered long ago, words that made even Spike youthful in comparison.

Spike took his right hand away from his balls and scooted his arse slightly farther away from the wall. His eyes were still focused on Giles but they’d gone half-closed, his lower lip was caught between his teeth, and he looked the perfect picture of debauchery. When he slid one finger between his lips, moistening it, and then inserted that finger into his small, pink sphincter, Spike moaned and Giles’s voice stumbled for a moment.

As Giles continued the spell, he wished he could touch himself; his cock and balls were throbbing almost painfully by now. But that wasn’t part of the magic, and he didn’t want to risk ruining things. He wondered what Spike’s skin felt like—was it as soft and smooth as it looked, like satin sheets? What would it be like to run fingers through that ridiculously colored hair, especially if the curls were freed from gel? And those peaked, pink nipples. What would they taste like? Would Spike arch and tremble if a tongue were swiped over them, if blunt teeth bit at them? Wouldn’t the firm globes of his arse fit perfectly into Giles’s palms, and if they were spanked a bit, wouldn’t the red be lovely against his otherwise milky flesh? And the channel that was currently being probed by one long finger—would it be tight and cool and hospitable around Giles’s cock?

As if Spike could read his thoughts, he licked his lips and tilted his hips, displaying himself even more to Giles’s hungry gaze. He groaned a word—it might have been “More”—and he was panting, taking air he didn’t need deeply into his dead lungs.

The candles were flickering, Giles realized, the flames first flaring unnaturally tall and bright, and then nearly guttering out. They no longer smelled of cranberries. Instead, there was the thick, musky smell of sex, and the coppery-sweet odor of blood, and, incongruously, the scent of home, of fog and car exhaust and the dirty Thames.

Spike looked suddenly very, very young, hardly more than a boy. At a certain point in Giles’s life, if he had come across a man like William—human and earnest and naïve and vulnerable—he would have taken pleasure in corrupting him, in teaching him to crave the darker things. Ah, but it was rather late for that now, wasn’t it? But he would have made William love the feel of the lash across tender skin, the cut of tight ropes and chains against muscle and bone, the heightened senses brought about by blindfolds and gags and desperation. He would have made William need him. And then Giles would have left him.

Spike’s breath hitched and his body tightened. Lightning fast, he withdrew his finger, and then held the brass bowl beneath his cock to catch the pearly liquid that erupted from the tip.

Giles stopped chanting. In the shocking silence, Spike shook his head, as if he were trying to wake himself from a dream, and rose to his feet. He was lacking much of his usual grace as he approached Giles, bowl in hand. His legs appeared slightly loose and wobbly, and his eyes were a bit glazed. Giles stuck his hand out, and Spike gave him the bowl. He watched as Giles stuck one finger into the cool, sticky liquid, and then bent and dipped the finger into one of the bowls of herbed water. He repeated the process for the other four bowls. As soon as he was finished, the candles all went out at once.

They stood and stared at each other. It was Spike who looked away first. “Did that do it then, Rupert?” he asked, his voice unusually hoarse, as if he’d been recently screaming.

“Yes, I expect so.” Giles was still hard. He deliberately smudged the chalk with the toes of his right foot, then stepped out of the pentagram. He found his clothing and pulled it on, wincing slightly as he zipped up.

Spike watched for a moment, then retrieved a cigarette from a packet beside the sofa and lit it. He made no moves to get dressed again. He was still half-erect. “And the Bit? She’s safe again?”

“As safe as she can be in Sunnydale.”

Giles gathered his things and stuffed them back in his bag. He walked toward the door and pulled it open, squinting as the blinding light hit his eyes. But before he left, he turned and looked at Spike. “Will you continue to watch out for her?”

“Yes.” Spike said it with a mixture of defiance and wariness.

Giles nodded. “Good.” And then he walked out into the afternoon sun.

  
[Chapter Two ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/181144.html)

 

  



	2. </strong> Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 2 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Ingredients&filter=all).

  


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**Ingredients (2/6)**   
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[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ff1rc/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Two  
**

 

As meetings went, it was a particularly uncomfortable one.

Xander and Anya had apparently had some sort of row, although it appeared as if Xander wasn’t quite certain what it had been about. The two of them sat at opposite ends of the room, and Anya glared at Xander the way only a former vengeance demon could, while the boy simply looked confused. Sometimes he looked at the other males in the room, as if they might back him up, but neither of them was stupid enough to cross Anya.

Willow and Tara also seemed to be in the midst of some sort of disagreement. They both had red-rimmed eyes, as if they’d been crying. They at least managed to sit next to one another on the sofa, but they weren’t quite touching, and they kept exchanging looks that Giles couldn’t read.

When Spike showed up for these meetings, as he sometimes did, he could generally be counted on to insert occasional snide comments. But tonight he was silent, leaning against one wall and staring at Giles with an odd look in his eyes. It made Giles very uncomfortable.

Dawn tried to liven things a bit by babbling on about some film she’d recently seen, but everybody seemed too caught up in their own issues to pay her much mind, and after a time she quieted and crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

That left Giles, and really, he wasn’t in a conversational mood. He hadn’t told them of the incident with the Xritonik the previous week, because what was the point of frightening them over something that was over and done with? But now, naturally, there was a fresh crisis, and this time he couldn’t keep quiet about it.

He took a sip of his bourbon. “I’ve been contacted by the Council. They’re sending a new Watcher to Sunnydale.”

Xander frowned. “Why? There’s nobody to watch. Not unless—they’re not going to spring Faith, are they?”

“No. But the Council appears to believe that it should have…more of a presence at the Hellmouth nonetheless.”

“But…but you’re a presence,” Willow said. “I mean, you’re very present and we’re doing just fine and we don’t need someone more present than you.”

“Thank you, Willow. But the Council disagrees.” Nobody looked very pleased about the news, and that gave Giles some solace, at least. Giles drank the last of his bourbon.

Xander said, “The last ones they sent were such winners. I mean, Wesley? And then there was that Gwendolyn woman.”

“Strictly speaking, the Council did not send Mrs. Post,” Giles pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Spike interjected. “They’re all wankers, the whole lot of them.”

Honestly, Giles was inclined to agree. But he didn’t say so. He just set his empty glass on the table.

A short time after that, the group broke up. Spike was the last to leave, and he hung back a bit as if he meant to say something, but in the end he just gave Giles another of his strange, unreadable looks and then departed. Giles glanced at the clock and saw that it was still quite early, and then he remembered that it was Tuesday. So he grabbed his guitar and got in his car.

The Pines wasn’t crowded; it rarely was on open mic night. But that was fine with him. A small audience suited him perfectly, and at least he knew that here, unlike at the Espresso Pump, none of Buffy’s friends were old enough to get in. As soon as Giles entered, the bartender, Ron, waved and poured him a glass of scotch; he brought it over just as Giles was settling himself on the stool at the back of the bar.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple weeks,” Ron said, handing over the glass.

“I’ve been busy,” Giles lied.

“Well, glad you made it. Place could use a little livening up tonight.” Ron grinned and inclined his head toward the dozen or so customers who were scattered around the bar, most of them drinking silently.

Giles nodded and sipped at his drink, and then began to tune the guitar while he tried to decide what to play first. He really hadn’t consciously made up his mind when he began to play, but then he realized he was playing the opening chords for _Layla_, and that was all right. He didn’t know whether the audience was appreciative—he rarely looked at them as he played—but nobody seemed to object, in any case, and they clapped when he was finished. He immediately segued into some vintage Kinks—_Where Have All the Good Times Gone_ and then _Waterloo Sunset_—and then, he thought, he did a rather good rendition of _The House of the Rising Sun_. His throat was dry by then, so he leaned the guitar against the wall and stood, taking the remains of his scotch with him to a nearby table, just in case someone else wanted a turn while he rested.

He drained his drink and stared down into the empty glass for a few moments. When he looked up, meaning to gesture to Ron for another, he nearly fell off his chair because Spike was sitting opposite him, smirking.

“Bloody _hell_!” Giles said.

“Weren’t watching very carefully, were you, Rupert?”

“What do you want?”

Spike shrugged, a complicated process involving far too many muscles. “Was in the neighborhood and fancied a revisit of the British Invasion. You do a mean Ray Davies.”

“This isn’t a demon bar, Spike.”

Spike pasted on an expression of faux-outrage. “You mean to say the proprietors of this establishment are discriminating against the soul-impaired? I’ll ring the bloody ACLU!”

Ron came over then with a bottle of scotch, some of which he poured into Giles’s glass. “And you?” he asked Spike.

Spike pointed at Giles. “What he’s having. On his tab.”

Giles rolled his eyes and then gave Ron a small nod. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. So Ron reappeared with a glass for Spike, and Spike lifted it in a salute. “Ta, Rupert,” he said, before downing it in one go.

“Spike. What do you want?” Giles tried to keep his voice even.

“Nothing. Niblet’s at home with the witches, Harris and his demon are shagging again, there’s nothing handy to kill, and I’m bored.”

Giles was going to come up with some sort of retort, but he stopped himself. Any response would probably only encourage the vampire. He satisfied himself with a small glare, then finished off his drink and stood. Without another word, he made his way back to the guitar. He sang _For Your Love_ and _Ruby Tuesday_ and _Pictures of Lily_, and _I’m Waiting for the Man_, then moved into the 1970s for _What Do I Get?_ and _Alternative Ulster_ and _Submission _and _Love is for Sops_. He looked up only when he sang _London Calling_, and there was Spike with an empty glass in his hand, watching intently.

Giles closed his eyes and sang one more song—_Here Comes the Night_—and when he was done with it Spike was gone.

 

***

 

Jacob McAdams—“Call me Jake, guys!”—was big and loud and American. Giles disliked him at once. He was young as well, likely not yet thirty, and yet appeared very confident in his own abilities. The new Watcher sat down on Giles’s sofa, somehow managing to take up the entire piece of furniture, and immediately started telling them how they’d been doing everything wrong.

“See, ya gotta have a system,” he said in his booming voice. “Can’t just be running around hacking randomly at shit. Ya gotta be proactive.”

“But the demons are rather unpredictable, you see,” Giles began.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s why you gotta have a plan. Then you’re ready for them, whatever shit they throw at you. Now, the first thing we gotta do is get ourselves a headquarters.”

“Headquarters?” Willow asked.

“Yeah. Establish a visible presence, so the demons know we mean business. All this skulking around, working out of people’s apartments and shit, that’s kinda amateurish. Ya get a real HQ, make it look impressive, and that right there will scare off some of the wimpier monsters. And it’ll make the tough guys think twice.”

_  
Or it will make a lovely target,   
_  
Giles thought, but he didn’t say it out loud, not even when the others shot him questioning looks. They had all gathered to meet the new Watcher. All except Spike, who’d been making himself very scarce in the week since he’d been at The Pines. Giles had caught only hints of the vampire of late, just a swirl of black leather ducking into an alley or a still-smoking cigarette stub on the ground beneath the Summers' front porch. Giles wished he could have avoided McAdams as well, or at least that he didn’t have to suffer having the man in his home.

“Isn’t that right, Rupert?” McAdams said, and Giles realized he’d been letting his mind wander.

“Erm, what was that?” he asked.

McAdams rolled his eyes. “See what I mean? Ya gotta stay focused. I was just emphasizing the importance of regular training sessions. I mean, just ‘cause you’re not a slayer, doesn’t mean ya gotta fight like a wuss.”

“Oh. Erm, yes, I expect that’s so.”

“Right. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” Giles stopped paying attention again as McAdams droned on about schedules and martial arts and— Good Lord! Did he honestly say something about self-esteem-building software? The others seemed somewhat interested, but Dawn was hanging on every word, no doubt entranced by the man’s thick golden hair and blindingly white teeth and large green eyes, not to mention the way his bulky muscles played under his tight t-shirt when he moved.

Giles was extremely relieved when they left so McAdams could take tours of the local cemeteries.

His relief was short-lived, however, because only moments later his front door opened and Spike sauntered in. The vampire sprawled on the recently vacated sofa. “So that’s your replacement? Looks like a right tosser.”

“He’s not—” Giles began, and then stopped. “Yes, that’s the new Watcher. And if I were you, I’d stay out of his way. I’ve no idea how tolerant he is of chipped vampires.”

Spike snorted. “Cheers, Rupert, but no worries. Wasn’t planning on crossing paths with him anyhow.”

Giles was going to ask Spike what he was doing there, but he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer. Instead, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey. With a heavy sigh, he took out another glass and poured a few fingers' full into that one as well. He turned to bring them into the living room, and then startled and almost dropped them when he saw Spike standing only a few feet away. “Stop _doing_ that!” Giles said.

Spike grinned and took one of the glasses. “I may not be able to bite you, but at least I can keep you on your toes.”

“Well, if you give me a heart attack I expect that will set off the chip as well.”

Spike frowned thoughtfully at that, and Giles tried to walk past him. But then Spike moved, vampire-quick, and he pinned Giles up against the wall with his body. Whiskey sloshed from both of their glasses, splashing onto their shirts and the floor. “I know you want me,” Spike purred, his mouth so close that Giles could feel the puffs of air as he spoke.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m in no mood—”

Spike shoved his groin against Giles’s. “I could get you in the mood. You can’t fool me, Rupert. I saw you, watching me. I _smelled_ you.”

Giles had to stifle a groan. It had been so long since anyone had touched him, and he couldn’t help but remember how Spike had looked as he’d masturbated in his crypt. But this was _Spike_, William the Bloody! Any sexual…contact with him was unthinkable, and this ridiculous seduction was clearly part of one of Spike’s schemes.

Except Giles could feel Spike’s cock grinding against his, and it was, quite obviously, very hard. And Spike was panting against him, and then the demon was licking Giles’s neck, his tongue cool and smooth, and instead of moving away, Giles found himself clutching at Spike’s shoulder with his free hand, keeping him drawn close.

Right, then. If Spike was going to play this game, Giles would show him he knew a thing or two as well. Giles pushed Spike away—hard—and swallowed his entire drink. He slammed the glass down onto the counter and then stepped forward, pushing Spike up against the opposite counter. Spike looked comically surprised to be the sudden subject of attack. He didn’t protest as Giles took his glass away as well and set it aside. And his mouth was slightly open as Giles's lips mashed against his.

Giles wasn’t certain what reaction he’d expected. Certainly not what he got, which was Spike submitting to him, the vampire parting his lips more as Giles thrust his tongue into the cool mouth that tasted of cigarettes and his own good whiskey. Spike’s body went slightly limp against Giles’s, as if he’d given up any hope of fighting, and Giles felt suddenly much larger and stronger than Spike. It was an exciting feeling, and one that intensified as Spike moaned slightly beneath the assault.

Giles could have him right then, he realized. He could tear Spike’s clothing off and pound into that tight, eternally youthful body. He could claw at that milky skin until it ran scarlet, and beat at that hard flesh until it was mottled in purples, and use his belt to make broad stripes against that lovely arse. Spike wouldn’t be able to fight without causing himself further pain, and he might not even fancy trying. And Giles could have a free conscience over it all, because this was only a soulless demon, a creature who deserved anything Giles could do to him and more.

Giles flung himself backward, away from Spike, so hard that he knocked back into the wall. Spike stared at him with wide eyes.

“Get out of here,” Giles said.

“But…but….” Spike had lost all of his cocksure composure.

“I said get out!” Giles roared.

Spike actually flinched a bit. Then he narrowed his eyes and sucked in his bottom lip. He reached for his abandoned glass and threw the whiskey down his throat, then stalked toward the door. When he reached it, he started to turn back, but didn’t complete the movement. In two more heartbeats the door was slamming shut behind him.

Giles pulled the back of one shaky hand across his mouth. He stood there for a moment and then walked toward the cupboard where he stored his liquor.

  
[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/181485.html)

 


	3. </strong> Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 3 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Ingredients&filter=all).

  


_   
**Ingredients (3/6)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ff1rc/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Three  
**

 

“So there were, like, eight of them and they were all gross and slimy, and I was like, I don’t even want them to touch me. But before they could get too close Jake was in there and he was just blowing them away with this gun. _Bam bam bam bam!_ Slime everywhere, and no more demons.” Dawn’s hands had been flying about as she spoke, and now she stopped with them still raised near her head and she smiled widely.

“That’s, erm, lovely. But Mrengi demons are quite dangerous, you know. If they touch you, then—”

“I know! But none of them did. Jake was awesome.”

Giles had seen enough love-struck teenagers in his life to recognize infatuation when he saw it, and he knew there would be little point in arguing with her. But he watched her take a sip from her mocha frappuccino or whatever monstrosity she was drinking, and he had to say something. “Are you certain it’s such a good idea for you to accompany them on patrol? It’s only that—”

She drew herself up and glared at him. “I’m not a child, you know! I’m fifteen years old.”

Giles sighed and looked about, as if the other customers at the Espresso Pump would somehow help. “I know that, Dawn. I only meant—”

“And I have lots of experience fighting already and Jake has been giving me lessons and besides, I’m always protected, you know.”

“Yes, Spike is quite…protective, but—”

“Spike?” She looked at him like he was insane. “I meant Jake!”

“Oh.” He looked down at his cooling cup of tea.

She slurped noisily through her straw. “Where is Spike, anyway? I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Giles couldn’t begin to identify the pang of emotion that ran through him. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I expect he’s steering clear of Mr. McAdams.”

She shrugged and, in the way of the very young, changed the subject to something else entirely, as if the previous discussion was already forgotten. “Have you seen Xander’s new car? Well, it’s not really _new_ new, ‘cause he bought it used, but it only has, like thirty thousand miles on it and it still kinda smells like a new car, if you sniff really hard, and it’s this pretty blue color even though I think Xander wanted a black one and Anya talked him into this one. But it’s got a great stereo and I was listening to my new Jennifer Lopez CD and Jake said….”

He tuned her out after a while, as she talked about bands he’d never heard of—at least he thought they were bands—and films he’d never go see, and she interjected comments every fourth sentence or so about the new Watcher. When her cup had nothing left in it but ice, she leapt to her feet as she remembered she was meant to meet one of her friends for some reason. She gave him a hurried goodbye and rushed out onto the sidewalk. Giles remained where he was for some time, staring at his cold tea.

 

***

 

Giles inhaled deeply, smiling at the sweet, yeasty scent of baking bread. His mouth watered and he stared at the oven, anxious to be able to take the loaves out and cut into them.

He’d spent considerable time cooking lately. Doing so filled his empty hours and gave him the satisfaction that came from completing something well. There were downsides to his new hobby, however. For one, he was putting on a bit of weight. And for another, the joy of each meal was tempered by the fact that he ate it alone.

He’d hardly seen or spoken to anyone in several weeks. Dawn called him now and then, and occasionally Willow stopped by to borrow a book, but they were all busy with McAdams and with their own lives. Of Spike there had been no sign at all, and Giles suspected the vampire had moved on. He wondered sometimes how Spike was managing to keep himself fed with the chip still in his head, but Spike was a resourceful creature and had no doubt come up with some scheme or another.

There were still five minutes left on the oven timer, so Giles gave the soup a stir and then brought up a spoonful to taste. He blew on the hot liquid and took a tiny sip. Hmm. A bit more pepper, perhaps. He shook a few grains into the pot and stirred again.

To be honest, it was still too warm outside to be proper soup weather, but then it was always too bloody warm for that here; and when he’d turned his calendar over to October, just the day before, he’d had a taste for the simple meal his mother used to make when the nights turned chilly. It wasn’t her recipe that he’d used—he hadn’t bothered to ask her for her recipes before she died, as his interests then lay very much in other directions—but it was a close approximation, in any case.

He’d considered going back to England, several times even going so far as to ring the airlines for ticket prices. It wasn’t as if he were needed for anything here in Sunnydale, or as if Sunnydale held anything for him. But he hadn’t yet actually booked a flight and deep inside, he knew why: He was afraid. Because he knew that England had nothing more to offer him than did California, and the emptiness of it all would hurt so much more at home.

The timer rang. Giles turned it off and opened the oven door. The loaves looked perfectly done, brown and nicely domed, but he knocked on one to be sure and the bread made a satisfying, hollow sound in response. He pulled out the pans and upended them over the cooling rack. He was sorely tempted to cut into one of the breads immediately, but he knew that would only result in burnt fingers and a mangled loaf. So instead he poured himself a glass of decent pinot grigio and set the butter dish on the table.

Five minutes later he was seated at the table, moaning happily as he bit into the still-steaming slice of bread. It tasted as delicious as it had smelled, and he’d smeared it liberally with sweet butter. He dipped the crust into his soup and ate the crust as well. The soup was good despite the weather. Tomorrow he’d make avgolemono instead, perhaps with a spinach salad.

He sighed. He needed to find something else to think about besides food.

He twisted to reach the bookshelf behind him and yanked out the first book his fingers touched. He hadn’t been reading anything more serious than Tom Clancy of late, but this was a big, leather-bound volume, and he winced when he saw what it was. Moreau’s _De Defaire le Mal_. The book that contained the methods for killing the Xritonik. The book that had caused him to seek out Spike, nearly three months earlier.

Suddenly, his appetite was gone.

He pushed his bowl away and put his arms onto the table and sank his head down onto them, knocking his glasses slightly askew.

He waited until the following morning. He still valued his life too much to venture into a cemetery alone at night. The deciduous trees had just begun to turn colors, the reds and golds seeming too gaudy for a graveyard. But the place looked very peaceful, as no doubt it was meant to. There were no signs of recent disturbances, and he wondered if McAdams’s techniques might be of value after all.

But then he came to Spike’s crypt, and he saw that the door was slightly ajar, and his breath caught in his throat, which wasn’t at all the reaction he intended. With his heart beating rapidly, he entered.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and once they did, he found himself unsurprised at the scene before him, as if some part of him had known all along what he would find. The furniture was overturned, the sofa on its back and one chair on its side. The television was smashed to bits and the refrigerator door hung open. Various small items were scattered about: a worn black boot, three or four shredded paperback books, a silver ring, a half-melted red candle that smelled of cranberries. Everything was covered in dust, but there was no particular location in which the dust lay any thicker than the others, which led him to believe it was all of the ordinary, non-vampiric sort.

Spike might have left town, as Giles had earlier assumed. It made sense. With Buffy gone there was no reason for him to stay, and Dawn seemed to be in safe hands. Perhaps Spike had even gone off in search of Drusilla again, or he was off looking for a way to remove the chip. Other demons could have entered his crypt after he’d left and made the mess, or even foolhardy local youngsters out for a thrill.

But Giles lifted the single boot and turned it over in his hands. He remembered watching Spike remove this boot as Spike undressed in preparation for Giles’s ritual. He never recalled seeing Spike wear anything on his feet but this pair of Docs, and this particular boot wasn’t worn enough that Spike would have been likely to simply discard it. It seemed, in fact, quite unlikely that the vampire would leave without it on. Voluntarily, in any case.

Giles wished he’d thought to bring a torch. Instead, he lit the candle he’d found and used its feeble flame to get a better look about. On the stone floor in front of the remains of the television he discovered a large bloodstain. It could be quite old, of course—bloodstains were hardly an unusual thing to find in a vampire’s abode. But then he saw something crumpled in one corner and he gasped. It was Spike’s duster, the leather torn and mangled.

Giles stood there a long time with the duster in one hand and the candle in the other. He barely noticed when the hot wax dripped onto his fingers.

 

 

***

 

The white and red sign read “Watchers Inc”. The lack of proper punctuation grated against him like biting on tinfoil. The space itself looked innocuous, just a storefront in a strip mall, in between a dry cleaner’s and a tax preparation firm. When he entered, a bell jingled merrily, and he found himself in a small space that contained a long white desk with a computer on it, two chairs behind it and two in front, as well as a sitting area against the front wall, with more chairs and a table full of old magazines. If the wooden crosses on one wall had been replaced by colorful posters of Hawaii or Florida, the office would rather have resembled a travel agency.

The door behind the desk opened, and Willow stepped out. She looked surprised at first, but then her face lit in a bright smile. “Giles! It’s so good to see you!”

He walked closer to her, feeling strangely awkward. “Hello, Willow,” he said.

“I was kinda giving up on you ever coming for a visit. Want a two-cent tour?”

“Erm…yes, please.”

She motioned him through the door. Behind it was a much larger space, most of which was set up as a gym. There were thick blue mats on the concrete floor, and several punching bags of various sizes hung from the ceiling. A battered wooden mannequin with painted-on fangs was propped in one corner, while sticks and knives and stakes were strewn about. There were also several wooden cupboards and two locked gun safes.

“Not a bad set-up, huh? We have lots of room to train, and we can store all our stuff here. Plus there’s a Starbucks and a Subway just a few doors down, so that’s pretty convenient.”

He looked about. “Where are the books?”

“The books? Oh, you mean, like, for research. We haven’t had to do too much of that, really. Just the stuff I’ve borrowed from you. Most of it’s online nowadays.”

He nodded, feeling antiquated and obsolete. “And how is…your enterprise faring?”

“Great! At first, things were kinda hairy, you know. But I guess the word got out about us and things have been quiet lately.”

“That’s…that’s very good. Erm, you haven’t seen Spike, have you?”

Her eyebrows drew together. “Spike? Um…no. Not for a while. Why, what’s he been up to this time?”

“Nothing. I mean…I haven’t had any sign of him either, not since…not since McAdams arrived.”

She grinned. “Jake’s great, isn’t he? He knows a lot about magic, too, and he’s been showing us some cool stuff. Like last week, we were doing this binding spell, and—”

“That’s lovely, Willow. But where _is_ Mr. McAdams?”

She looked a bit crestfallen, then glanced at her watch. “He’s not due here until 3:00, when Dawn gets out of school. He’s probably still at home. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I simply need…I need to discuss a few matters with him. Where does he live?”

She gave him a strange sort of look, but then she told him McAdams’s address. They chatted a few moments longer about Xander and Dawn, and then he took his leave.

McAdams lived in an unprepossessing house a few blocks from the Summers residence. It was painted a vague beige color and a silver SUV was parked in the driveway. The lawn was slightly browning in spots and overgrown in others. A flyer for one of the local pizza places was stuck on the front doorknob.

Giles rang the bell.

It took quite a long time, but eventually McAdams opened the door and squinted out at him. The Watcher was wearing a pair of floral board shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt. His face was unshaven. “Rupert!” he boomed. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’d hoped to have a few words with you.”

McAdams shrugged. “Sure thing, man. Come on in.” He stepped back so Giles could enter the house. They were in the living room, where beer cans and empty pizza and Chinese takeaway boxes were scattered about, and the television was blaring some sort of sports event. “Have a seat. Can I get you a brew?”

“No, thank you.”

“’Kay. Gonna have one myself, though.”

Giles perched uncomfortably on the edge of a brown chair while the other man padded into the kitchen. McAdams returned a moment later, a can of Budweiser in his hand. He popped it open, took a gulp, and then plopped himself down on the sofa. He picked up the remote and clicked the television off.

“So what’s up, dude?”

“I went by your…office.”

“Yeah? Pretty sweet set-up, huh? Used to be a karate place or something. Rent’s dirt cheap.”

“You use it as a training space?”

“Yep. And we meet there, most of the time. Plus, once in a while, someone’s got a demon problem, they stop on in and we take care of it. I been thinking of setting some people up on a contract, like one of those home security companies. You know, alarms and all.”

“Does the Council approve of this?”

“The Council’s given me pretty wide leeway, on account of things were so fucked up here when I arrived.” He didn’t say it in an accusatory way, but Giles couldn’t help but feel his hackles rise.

“We had many difficulties facing us,” Giles said.

“Hey, man, I know! Things really sucked around here. That’s why I’m doing something different now. Trying to make sure the shit doesn’t have a chance to get stirred up again.”

“I see,” Giles said, likely not very convincingly.

An awkward silence fell in the room, and McAdams took another long chug of his beer. “So, um, you wanted to talk?” he said after he’d swallowed.

“Yes.” Giles took a deep breath and let it out. “I was wondering if you were aware of the whereabouts of Spike.”

“Spike?”

“Erm, William the Bloody, as it were. He’s a vampire, but he’d been helping us out a bit, you see. It’s…well, it’s rather complicated, but—”

“The vamp with the chip.”

“Yes. Quite.” He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried that McAdams knew this.

McAdams finished off his beer and crumpled the can in his fist. “Yeah, I caught him a long time ago.”

“You _caught_ him?”

“Yep. I’d seen him kinda hanging around Dawn a couple of times. Creepy. I was just gonna stake him, but then Xander told me about the chip, and I thought, hey! That’s kinda interesting. So I found out where he was lurking and I shot a hole or two in him, until he wasn’t in any kinda shape to do nothing, chip or not. It was easy as pie.”

Giles was proud of how his voice remained steady. “And what did you do with him once he was…captured?”

“I had him shipped back to London. Wasn’t easy, either. All kinds of paperwork, and the Council had to pay off a few people to not notice that the corpse we were shipping was kinda _moving_ inside the metal box.” He laughed. “Dude was pissed _off_.”

“So the Council has him now?”

“I dunno, man. He’s not my problem no more. I got plenty of other chipless vamps right here in SoCal to deal with, right?”

“Right.” Giles stood and made his way to the door, his legs feeling as if they belonged to someone else.

As he reached for the doorknob, McAdams sauntered over. “Hey. You want to join us on patrol tonight? I could show you some of the stuff I’ve taught the gang.”

“No. No, thank you. I…I must be going.”

  
[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/181649.html)

 


	4. </strong> Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 4 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Ingredients&filter=all).

_   
**Ingredients (4/6)**   
_

**  
Four  
**

 

He discovered that he’d memorized the toll-free number for British Airways.

He couldn’t afford a last-minute ticket, so he was forced to wait two weeks. It was a very long fourteen days, during which he fretted over Spike, and berated himself for fretting, then berated himself for not acting sooner to inquire into Spike’s disappearance, then berated himself for being a fool and forgetting this was a vampire, after all. And then he got drunk and mostly stayed that way. The alcohol didn’t silence the voices in his head, but it muted them a bit, at least.

A few days before he was to leave, he packed up his books and paid a small fortune to ship them off to London. He wondered as he did so whether it was worth the expense if, as Willow said, everything was on the Internet now. Maybe the books were now as obsolete as his records, which, he had been told, he should have replaced long ago with CDs, and now he was meant to buy everything in electronic format and store it on an iPod. As if his bootleg copy of _The Who Live at the Fillmore East_ would sound better without the familiar little scratches and pops.

The day before he left, Giles packed his clothing and a few photos and other belongings into two suitcases. The rest—his furniture, the kitchen things, and so on—he intended to simply abandon. It wasn’t worth shipping overseas. His guitar was harder to leave behind, but he hadn’t felt like playing in ages.

He didn’t ring anyone. He told himself that was because he wanted to avoid any uncomfortable parting scenes, but the truth was that he was afraid there would be no such scenes at all, that Willow and Xander and Dawn would simply give him a quick good-bye and then turn back to the new Watcher. He did leave them a note, however, telling them he was returning to England. He didn’t explain why. He left the note on the counter, along with the keys to his car. Perhaps Dawn could use it next year, when she turned 16.

He heard the shuttle bus honking outside, ready to take him to the airport. He picked up his luggage and, without a backward look, he left his flat.

It was raining when he arrived at Heathrow, the sky a uniform leaden gray that was instantly familiar and welcome. Giles smiled up at it as he exited the Underground station, ignoring the way the rain drops fell on his glasses.

He’d rented a flat as soon as he bought his tickets. It was a tiny place, just a miniscule loo, a cupboard-sized bedroom, and a slightly larger room that served for everything else. But it was in a good location and he could afford it, and it came furnished. His new landlady was an elderly Welsh woman who looked him up and down sternly, but seemed to find him sufficiently respectable and, so, led him inside. She handed him the keys and a typed list of rules, then departed.

Although it was only early afternoon, jet lag and an uncomfortable flight—crammed in a middle seat between a French college student and a salesman from Sherman Oaks—left him exhausted. Surely another day wouldn’t matter to Spike, if the vampire still even existed. Nonetheless, Giles found himself leaving his unopened suitcases on the bed and, pulling on his jacket, he ventured downstairs and back into the rain. He’d need to buy an umbrella, he thought.

He nearly got himself run over crossing the street, when he looked the wrong way for traffic. Too long in bloody California.

Watchers’ HQ looked exactly as it always had, probably exactly as it had when William Pratt was born. The front door was kept locked, but Giles still had the key and it felt strangely familiar in his hand. When he entered the small foyer, two Watchers happened to be walking by. Bella Simpson and Thomas Wright, if he remembered correctly. They stopped and gaped at him in shock, but he simply nodded at them and made his way down the corridor.

He knew where Spike would be, if he were anywhere in this building.

The door to the cellar was locked as it always had been, but again, Giles still possessed the key. The stairs were steep and lit only by two dim lightbulbs. Giles had always suspected that the Council deliberately kept this passageway sinister looking, for better intimidation of those who were forced to travel this way.

The man who sat at the little desk at the bottom of the stairs had certainly heard the descending footsteps, but when he saw Giles’s face he startled so violently he dropped the book he’d been reading. “Rupert _Giles_!” he squawked.

Giles smiled. Terrence Mills had always been a bit dim, and that would make Giles’s current task a bit easier, perhaps. “Terrence,” Giles said, nodding slightly.

“But…what are _you_ doing here?”

Giles raised one eyebrow. “This is Watchers’ Headquarters, is it not? And I am still a Watcher, I believe.”

Terrence blushed slightly. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean…. It’s only that it’s been such a long time since you were here.”

Giles knew that Terrence, and the other Watchers as well, were perfectly aware of what had happened in Sunnydale and of Giles’s current ambiguous status. The Council had always been worse than a high school for encouraging gossip. But Giles only looked at the man sternly. “Yes. I’m here to sort some unfinished business from California. Business concerning William the Bloody.”

To Giles’s enormous relief, Terrence’s glance skittered toward the door that led to the rest of the cellar. “The vampire?” Terrence asked.

“No, William the Bloody orthodontist. Of _course_ the vampire!”

Terrence quailed visibly. “Of course, of course,” he mumbled. “But, erm, I’m not certain if, erm, you’re meant to see it.”

Giles ignored the Council-approved pronoun, instead feeling a rush of relief that Spike was, apparently, still there. In his most withering tone, he said, “I’ve spent the last five years seeing him, Terrence. It’s not as if there’s anything secret about him for me.”

Terrence frowned. “Yes…. But, erm, it’s not meant to be destroyed. Not yet. They’re still working on it, you see.”

Giles suppressed a shudder. “I’ve no intentions of destroying him today. Let me through.”

“Erm….” Terrence looked back and forth between Giles and the door and the telephone on his desk. Giles drew himself to his full height and looked as menacing as possible. That seemed to work, because the other man shrugged and unlocked the door. “Room Three,” Terrence said. Giles softened his expression a bit and walked through. The door shut behind him.

It had been a very long time since Giles had been down here, and he would have been perfectly content had he never ventured here again. It didn’t look like much—just four plain, gray doors set into stone walls. But he knew what went on behind those doors.

With a few deep breaths for courage, he unfastened the heavy bolt on the door marked “3” and opened it.

The room inside was very bright, bright enough to hurt even his human eyes. For a vampire, the light would be quite uncomfortable. Which was, of course, the idea.

Spike was lying on his back on a metal table in the middle of the room. Heavy leather straps were fastened around his wrists and ankles, his thighs and chest, and a piece of iron curved around his neck, further pinning him in place. He was naked and very, very thin, his skin like paper stretched over protruding bones. His skull was shaved, with half-healed incisions crisscrossing his scalp. He had other wounds on his body as well, neat slices and mottled bruises and abrasions crusted in dried blood.

Spike pried his lids slowly open but his eyes went wide when he saw Giles. Emotions flashed rapidly across Spike’s face: surprise, hope, despair, and then a poor shadow of his usual smirk. A hoarse, broken sound came from his throat, and Giles understood after a moment that it was meant to be a laugh.

“Is it your turn to have a go now, Rupert?” Spike’s voice was thin and raspy. “Best hurry before there’s nothing left but dust.”

Giles came a few steps closer, pretending he didn’t see the shelves full of sharp things and bottles of holy water and other tools of his trade. “I’m not here to hurt you, Spike.”

“Then what? You came all this way just to gloat? Or perhaps you’ve finally worked up the nerve to fuck me. Go ahead. Although I reckon I’m not so pretty now, am I?” Spike’s jaw worked and he tried to look away, but the metal collar dug deeply into his neck, restricting even that movement.

“Stop being melodramatic. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Spike turned his head back a bit and narrowed his eyes. “Coming to _my_ rescue? You’ve sunk awfully low, Watcher. Nothing left to save in Sunnyhell with the replacement mending everything?”

Giles could see the fear that underlay Spike’s words, and he didn’t get angry. He only sighed and began, laboriously, to unfasten the straps. He began with Spike’s ankles, but it was only as he worked on the buckles near Spike’s thighs that Giles realized the vampire was trembling, his entire frail body vibrating minutely. Without meaning to, Giles smoothed a palm along the soft skin over Spike’s knee. Spike made a strange, strangled sound, and when Giles glanced at his face he saw tears working their way from between tightly shut eyelids. He pretended not to notice in the hopes of preserving the shreds of Spike’s dignity.

The straps were very tight, and it took him some time to undo them all. Then he loosened the bolt that kept the collar affixed to the table, and swung the metal up and over, wincing at the deep indentations in Spike’s thin neck. Although he was now free, Spike didn’t move.

“You can get up now,” Giles said softly.

Spike shook his head. “I don’t…don’t want any games. I can’t bear…. Just do it, Rupert.” And he simply lay there, exposed and vulnerable.

Rupert grasped Spike’s bony shoulders and hauled him upright. Spike didn’t protest, but he didn’t particularly assist, either. When he was sitting, he remained slumped as if he might fall over again any moment. Giles sighed and shrugged off his coat, then slipped it over Spike’s shoulders. Spike allowed his arms to be tucked into the too-long sleeves, and Giles felt as if he were dressing a mannequin.

When Spike was more or less encased in the jacket, Giles pushed gently at his back. “Can you stand?” he asked.

Spike blinked at him. “Dunno. It’s been…some time.”

Giles pushed some more, until Spike was standing unsteadily on the floor. When the vampire’s legs buckled, Giles caught him—he weighed alarmingly little—and leaned him back against the table. Then he zipped up the coat, which hung down to Spike’s upper thighs, allowing him a modicum of decency. Throughout the process, Spike just stared at him a bit woozily.

“How long since you’ve fed?” Giles asked.

“Don’t…don’t know. Can’t tell time with the bloody light on all the time.”

Giles hooked one of Spike’s arms over his own shoulders and, with some difficulty, they made their way to the door. “Stairs are going to be a bloody delight,” Giles grumbled to himself. But he managed to get Spike out of the room and down the corridor, at least, and then he pounded on the door.

The door swung open. Terrence was standing there, gaping, but then so was a small gaggle of other Watchers, with Quentin Travers at the forefront. Spike whimpered almost inaudibly and, although Giles wasn’t surprised at the crowd, he had to swallow a groan.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Travers demanded. He was dressed in a tweed suit and vest, and puffing heavily, as if he’d rushed down there.

“I’m taking him. Clearly,” Giles said with a steady voice.

“You’re doing no such thing! That’s a vampire!”

“I can recognize vampires quite well, thank you, Quentin. I’ve encountered one or two of them before.”

“That vampire is the Council’s property. Put it back.”

“The last I recall, the Council destroyed vampires. It didn’t own them.” Spike settled more of his weight on Giles’s shoulders, and Giles wasn’t certain how much longer Spike was going to be able to remain upright.

Travers huffed. “This particular creature has value as a research subject. As you are well aware.”

“You plan to follow in the Initiative’s despicable footsteps and enslave demons? Aside from the moral issues inherent in such a scheme, might I remind you that it didn’t work out well for the Initiative? Now, get out of my way.”

“I will not.” Travers set his arms stubbornly across his chest.

Giles nodded and gave his coldest smile, one that Travers might have remembered from Giles’s somewhat…colorful youth. Almost without realizing it, Travers took a step backwards. “Perhaps you know, Quentin, that one of Buffy’s friends has developed into a quite powerful witch. Willow Rosenberg.”

Travers didn’t reply, but Giles could tell from the slight shifting in his eyes that the man was well-acquainted with Willow’s abilities.

Giles continued rather quickly, because he could feel Spike’s strength failing. “Miss Rosenberg and I are somewhat…beholden…to Spike. She has placed an enchantment on this building. I believe it’s one of the spells from De Groot’s _Omnibus_.” Travers paled a bit. De Groot’s spells were difficult to cast and terrifically destructive. “All I must do is say a trigger word—or fail to exit the building within thirty minutes of my arrival—and the entire block will go up in flames. Now, if you please? I’m not certain how much time has already passed.”

For a horrible minute, Travers didn’t move, and Giles was certain the man was going to call his bluff. But then Travers glared and motioned to the others to step aside. He stepped back a few feet as well, allowing Giles just enough room to drag Spike past. “Your days with the Council are over, Rupert,” Travers said.

“Thank the Lord for that,” Giles growled, and found that he meant it.

Getting Spike up the stairs was as difficult as he’d feared. Giles wasn’t certain the vampire was fully conscious any longer, and nearly had to carry him. Giles's heart was beating hard and his breath coming in pants by the time they reached the top, and he vowed to exercise more frequently, should he survive this.

In the upstairs corridor, more Watchers watched, but none moved to stop him. Giles hauled Spike to the front door, only then realizing that it was still daylight. “Will heavy clouds be enough to protect you?” he asked.

Spike moaned something. Giles hoped it was an affirmative.

A few people stopped and stared as Giles and Spike descended the building’s front steps and then headed down the pavement in search of a passing cab. Spike didn’t burst into flames—and if he did, the rain might just put him out, Giles thought—and that was good.

A black cab pulled up to the curb, and although the driver gave Giles and Spike an off look indeed, Giles reckoned he’d probably seen stranger things on the streets of London. As Giles pushed Spike into the back seat, the driver merely asked for the address.

Giles carried him into the building, ignoring the curious stares of the people who were hurrying by. It was fortunate that Giles’s flat had a lift, because Spike was almost fully unconscious as they rode up to the fifth floor, where Giles had to set him down in the hallway in order to get out his keys and manage the lock. He lifted Spike again—feeling his back twinge painfully in the process—mumbled an invite, and plopped the vampire down inelegantly on the sofa. Spike sprawled there, looking dead. The coat was hitched up, revealing his groin, so Giles nearly jogged into the bedroom, yanked a blanket off the bed, and then hurried back and spread it over Spike from toes to chin. If Spike noticed, he didn’t indicate it with so much as an eyelid twitch.

Giles frowned down at him. He hadn’t really thought this bit out. Well, he hadn’t really thought any of it out. With a heavy sigh, he went back into the bedroom. He unlocked one of the suitcases and pulled out his spare coat, then exchanged the sodden shoes he’d been wearing for a pair of properly waterproof boots. Back in the other room, he announced, “I’m going to get you some blood. Don’t go anywhere.” Again, Spike didn’t respond.

Giles knew that human blood would be best for Spike, but he had no idea where he might find it, especially now as evening was falling. So instead he slogged the few blocks to Sainsbury’s where, thankfully, the butcher’s counter was still open. The butcher didn’t bat an eye as Giles purchased four liters each of pig and cow blood, which was as much as Giles expected he could carry home at once. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t eaten for ages and that his cupboards were quite literally bare, so he grabbed a packet of Assam and a ready-made roast beef sandwich. He still had a wallet full of dollars and had to pay with his overburdened credit card instead.

He looked carefully about as he re-entered his building. It had occurred to him that the Council might try to find him, and here he was, less than a mile from HQ. But perhaps they assumed he’d return to the States, or perhaps they were just happy to be rid of him and wouldn’t bother with a pursuit. He hoped so, because he didn’t have the resources—financial or otherwise—to live as a fugitive.

When he returned to his flat, Spike hadn’t moved at all. Giles brought his purchases into the tiny kitchenette area and put most of them in the refrigerator. After a few moments of rooting around, he found the tea kettle. As the water heated, he poured some blood into a mug, warmed it slightly in the microwave, and then brought it over to Spike.

Spike still showed no signs of awareness, even when Giles shook him a bit. So with a heavy sigh, Giles knelt on the floor beside the sofa and stuck an arm under Spike’s shoulders and attempted to lift him up enough so that Giles would be able to tip some blood into the vampire’s slack mouth. As he did so, however, Giles got a much closer look at the injuries to Spike’s head, and that’s when he realized that one of them was still quite open, so much so that Giles could actually see the pinkish brain matter through the small hole that had been cut in the skull.

It was very fortunate that Giles had a strong stomach.

Giles did manage to slowly pour the blood into Spike. Some of it dripped down the corners of his mouth, but most of it went in and Spike swallowed, perhaps purely by reflex. He’d need much more, and Giles was exhausted. He wondered how long he’d have to remain on the floor before Spike had drunk enough.

When the mug was empty, Giles carefully slid Spike’s upper body back down. He ignored the creak in his knees as he stood and started toward the refrigerator to refill the mug. Before he got there, however, he had another thought. Before reason and good sense could rear their familiar heads, he detoured toward the bedroom and the first aid kit he had tucked into one suitcase.

  
[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/181883.html)

 


	5. </strong> Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 5 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Ingredients&filter=all).

 

_   
**Ingredients (5/6)**   
_

**  
Five  
**

 

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Giles blinked groggily awake, confused for a moment about where he was and why there was a vampire standing over him wearing nothing but Giles’s jacket.

“I was sleeping, Spike,” he managed after a few moments. “People do that, you know.”

Spike shook his head impatiently. “Why did you take me out of there?”

Giles sat up. He was still fully dressed—he’d collapsed onto the bed as soon as Spike seemed to have fed enough—and he felt grimy and worn. He had no idea what time it was, either. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table informed him it was 1:26, but because the curtains were tightly drawn he wasn’t certain whether that was AM or PM.

“I can return you if you miss it so much,” Giles said. “But you didn’t seem to be enjoying the Council’s hospitality.”

“Why did you spring me from that place? Those wankers—they’re your mates, yeah?”

“The other members of the Council have not been my friends in the best of times, and they certainly aren’t now.” He rubbed his eyes and then found his glasses beside the clock and put them on. Spike was still very thin, but no longer skeletal, and most of his wounds had disappeared.

“So you stole me out of some sort of revenge?”

“No, I….” Giles sighed. “What difference does it make? You’re free.”

The expression on Spike’s face was unreadable. “And what do you mean to do with me now, Rupert?”

“I don’t mean to do anything. You’re welcome to leave anytime. I suggest you wait until you have some clothing, however.”

Spike glanced down at himself, as if he hadn’t previously noticed his near-nudity. Then he looked back at Giles. “Where are we?” he asked a bit plaintively.

“Fitzrovia. Hallam Street.”

Spike opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Mum and I…. I used to live at Adeline Place.”

“That’s a short walk from here.”

“I know.”

There was a brief, strained silence, which Giles broke by standing and stretching. He glanced at his watch, but it was still set on California time, and it took him a moment to calculate that it was now afternoon in London. “There’s more blood in the fridge, if you think you can manage it. Would you like me to go out and get you something to wear?”

“Yeah. Ta.” Still frowning in confusion, Spike turned and started to leave the room.

“Wait,” Giles said, and Spike paused and turned back. Giles rooted in the open suitcase beside the bed, and emerged a moment later with a bundle of leather, which he tossed at the surprised vampire. “It needs mending, but it’s salvageable, I believe.”

Spike shook the bundle loose, and once again looked slightly dumbstruck when he realized it was his duster. “Where did you…?”

“It was in your crypt when I went looking for you. I thought you might fancy having it back.” Giles didn’t add that, at the time, he wasn’t at all sure Spike still existed, which would have made the coat a very grim memento.

Spike gave him more of that unfathomable expression, then ducked his head and left the room. He was, Giles, noticed, clutching the duster tightly to his chest.

 

***

 

Spike must have showered while Giles was out, and drunk the remaining blood. In addition to some jeans and t-shirts and a pair of boots—all in Spike-approved black, of course—Giles had bought more blood at the grocers. He tossed the bag of clothing to Spike and stuck the blood in the fridge. Spike unwrapped the towel from his waist, after which Giles couldn’t help but notice that the vampire had filled out very nicely. By the time he pulled on trousers and a shirt, Spike looked nearly himself again. His head was still bald, though, and there was something fragile about him, as if he might fall apart any moment. This air of vulnerability stirred such an odd mixture of emotions in Giles that he couldn’t identify them at all.

“Problem, Watcher? Did you just now realize what you’d rescued?”

Giles shook his head, more to clear it than in denial. “No. I was only…erm, seeing if the clothing fit.”

Spike looked down at himself and shrugged. “’T’s fine.” Then he looked at Giles with narrowed eyes. “How long can I stay?”

“As long as you like. We may be a bit cramped in this flat, but I can manage.”

Spike seemed to think this over. “And the Council…they won’t be after you?”

“They might. But if they find me, I can protect myself, I expect.”

“What you said to them, was that true?”

Giles chuckled. “No. Willow and the others have no idea what I’m doing. That was only a bluff, but a rather effective one.”

Spike’s mouth quirked in the ghost of a smile. “Always knew you were a sly old fox, Rupert. But I didn’t mean that bit. I meant…the bit where you said you were…beholden to me.” His voice had become very quiet, as if he didn’t quite want anyone to hear him.

“Oh.” Giles suppressed the urge to polish his glasses. “Well, erm, yes. I…. You did a great deal to protect Dawn in the months after Buffy….” He still couldn’t say it, and he cleared his throat. “You proved yourself an honorable man. You deserve to be treated as such.”

For a moment, Spike looked almost as surprised as if he’d been struck. His jaw clenched visibly. “Cheers,” he whispered. And then, more loudly, he said, “So it wasn’t you who set the new Watcher after me.”

“Spike, if I’d wanted you gone, I would have done it myself. I most certainly would not have used…that man. McAdams saw you himself, most likely lurking outside the Summers house and then I believe it was Xander who told him about the chip.”

“Tosser!”

“I don’t believe the boy meant any harm by it. He might actually have meant to protect you—McAdams was going to stake you.”

Spike made a face. “Lovely protection.” But he also looked a bit relieved, Giles thought, as if he were glad to know he hadn’t been deliberately betrayed. Then he looked about the room, as if he expected to find something there. “Why are you here, Rupert?”

Giles said the first answer that came to mind. “I wanted to come home.”

Spike took a deep breath, let it out, and then nodded slightly.

They didn’t speak much the rest of the day. Giles went out to the grocers again, this time to stock up a bit more on human food. After he returned, he unpacked his suitcases, reflecting as he did that it might be pathetic that a man his age had so little to show for himself. Spike spent the afternoon huddled on the sofa, sipping slowly at mugs of blood, staring off into infinity. After Giles cooked himself some supper—some broiled salmon and a salad—Spike came over and joined him at the tiny table, wordlessly toying with the edges of a placemat. Giles offered him some food, but Spike just shook his head and continued staring at the tabletop.

Only when Giles had finished his meal, and had gone to the fridge to fetch them each a bottle of ale, did Spike look at him again. “What will you do now?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“I don’t know. Find a position somewhere, I expect. I have a few contacts, here and there.”

“Do you have family here?”

“No. “

Spike tilted his head a bit. “What about that bird you were seeing? She’s here, isn’t she?”

“Olivia and I are no longer…. She’s moved on.” Giles shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But Spike just continued to gaze at him, blue eyes sharp and knowing, so Giles stood and walked the few steps to the sofa. He sat down again and clicked on the television.

He had assumed that Spike would go out when night fell, at least to revisit his old home. But Spike didn’t, instead folding himself gracefully on the other end of the sofa, a bottle of Fuller’s clutched in his hand. He didn’t comment on Giles’s choice of programs—a documentary on Robert the Bruce.

They remained that way for several hours, silently watching the telly, sometimes getting up to get a fresh bottle, so that Giles felt absurdly like they were an old married couple. He hadn’t known Spike could be so quiet for so long. Eventually though, exhaustion crept up on Giles again, and he stood and stretched. “I’m off for bed,” he explained, rather lamely.

Spike crooked an eyebrow but said nothing.

Giles took a long, hot shower. The shower stall was a bit claustrophobic but the water pressure was good, and the towels were surprisingly soft. When he was finished in the loo, he wandered into the bedroom, intending to slip on a pair of pajama trousers and get into bed.

What he found, though, was Spike, who was once again naked, and splayed across the bed. Spike was slowly stroking his erect cock, and he leered over at Giles, raking his eyes up and down Giles’s body. “Did I mention it before? You’ve kept yourself fit for an old man.” Spike leered.

Giles felt himself blush slightly, which was ridiculous. “I’m nearly a century your junior, you know.”

“But I’m well preserved, yeah?”

Giles sighed. “What are you doing, Spike?”

Spike looked down at his fist, which was still moving languidly up and down his length. “Should think that’s rather obvious.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

“Because you like to watch, Watcher. Even if you’ve retired. ‘T’s why you sprung me, innit?”

Spike’s last sentence was enough to quell Giles’s incipient erection. “I told you why I got you out of there, and it wasn’t so you could be my…my….”

“Boy toy? Demon lover?” Spike smirked.

Giles frowned and made his way to the chest of drawers, where he found his blue pajamas. He pulled them on and then glared at Spike. “I’d like to sleep now.”

Spike managed to shrug without interrupting his rhythm. “Go ahead.” He tilted his head toward the empty pillow beside him. “Plenty of room.”

“By myself.”

Something flashed in Spike’s eyes. For a split second, it seemed as if the vampire had been wounded. But then the smirk reappeared and Spike stood. “Suit yourself,” he said, and stalked into the other room, his cock bouncing as he walked.

 

***

 

The following morning, Giles rang Sam Cohen, someone with whom he’d had occasional dealings before his years in Sunnydale. The man seemed surprised to hear from him—it had been a few years—but not displeased. Giles explained that he was looking for a position, and Cohen promised to ask around on Giles’s behalf.

Giles rang off and glanced over at Spike, who was lying on the sofa. Spike was dressed again, at least, and it appeared that he’d used his mangled duster as a blanket.

“I know you’re awake, Spike,” Giles said, and filled the teakettle.

“Can’t help it, with you making all that noise, can I? Bloody unnatural hour for a vampire to be up, too.”

“Well, I’ll be leaving shortly, and then you can resume your beauty sleep.” Giles leaned against the sink, gazing through the blinds of the room’s sole window. The window looked out at nothing much, just a street. It was raining again.

“Do you really mean to leave demon-hunting behind and live as a civilian?” Spike asked.

Giles didn’t turn around. “Yes.”

“You still have a few good years in you, I’ll wager. You don’t need a Slayer. Loads of Watchers manage without.”

Outside, an old woman was making her way down the pavement carrying a black umbrella. She held a leash in her other hand, and it was attached to a large and scruffy dog that didn’t suit her at all. But the dog’s tail was waving merrily and the woman was smiling fondly at it.

The kettle whistled. Giles poured the hot water into the pot and took two clean mugs from the cupboard. His books should be arriving soon, he thought. He wasn’t certain what he’d do with them, but he couldn’t imagine just discarding them, and he certainly wasn’t going to show up on the Council’s doorstep with them. When the tea had steeped sufficiently, he poured it into the cups and carried one of them to Spike, who took it from him and then slurped noisily at it. Vampires didn’t have to worry about burning their tongues, Giles expected.

Giles took his own mug to the kitchen table and sat, watching the tendrils of steam float up into the air and inhaling the slightly malty fragrance of his tea. He suddenly realized his head was aching, a dull thudding sort of pain that began behind his eyes and radiated outward, making him feel slightly dizzy and out of sorts.

“What am I meant to do, then?” Spike asked, perhaps trying for belligerence but mostly managing to sound forlorn.

“I don’t know, Spike. Do whatever you fancy. Stay if you like. Or go. You need some money? I’ve a couple hundred pounds in my wallet on the bedside table. You want…honestly, I don’t know what you might want.”

Spike snorted. “You don’t know what you want either, Rupert.”

That wasn’t strictly true, Giles could have told him. He knew what he wanted. He just couldn’t have it. But Giles remained silent and sipped at his tea.

Spike didn’t leave that night, or the next, or the one after that. He didn’t leave the flat at all, in fact, but remained on the sofa most of the time, watching television or staring at nothing, all the lines of his body tight with tension. Giles wandered the city a bit during the days, revisiting a few favorite old haunts. He didn’t see any signs of pursuit from the Council. In the evenings he’d come home—although he didn’t really think of it as home yet—and sit with Spike, drinking tea or ale or whiskey, watching mindless drivel on the telly, speaking little. The second night, Spike again attempted to join him in bed, and Giles refused him. After that, Spike stopped trying.

And then one day Giles came back to the flat a bit after sunset, and Spike was gone. So was the small wad of cash Giles had begun keeping conspicuously on the kitchen table, and the refrigerator had been emptied of blood bags. There was no sign at all that Spike had been there, aside from a damp towel on the floor next to the shower.

  
[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/182021.html)

 


	6. </strong> Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[ingredients](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/ingredients), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Ingredients  
**Chapter:** 6 of 6  
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set during the summer between BtVS S5 and S6. Giles needs an ingredient that only Spike can give him. It's not quite like borrowing a cup of sugar.  
**A/N:** This fic is complete. I'll be posting all six  chapters today, for [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Ingredients&filter=all).

**Whew!! That was _fast!_ Thank you for reading and commenting. I hope you enjoyed. Tomorrow I'll be posting a 1 chapter vamp!Giles. :-)**

  
 

_   
**Ingredients (6/6)**   
_

**  
Six  
**

 

To Giles’s surprise, it was Xander who contacted him.

Cohen had found Giles a position at the British Library. It wasn’t as challenging as Giles might have preferred, but it wasn’t bad, and it paid the bills, and he felt as if he were accomplishing something. Giles’s co-workers mostly kept to themselves, although sometimes they’d chat a bit over sandwiches at lunchtime. One of them, a pretty girl in her late twenties, seemed very impressed that Giles had lived in California, and he rather suspected that if he were to ask her to dinner or to see a film, she would say yes.

He didn’t ask her.

So Giles spent his days with books and manuscripts, and then he’d return to the flat, where he might read through some of his own books, which he’d stacked neatly in the living room, or he'd watch television. Sometimes he wished he’d brought his guitar with him from Sunnydale, and now and then he even considered buying a new one, but he never did.

He wasn’t unhappy. He wasn’t…anything, really. He felt a bit disconnected from himself, as if he were watching a character in a not-very-interesting play. And if, now and then when he was alone in bed, he allowed himself a fantasy or two about Spike, well, Giles was only human, after all.

And then one Saturday evening the phone rang—which it very rarely did—and when Giles answered, it was Xander.

“Giles!” Xander sounded relieved, Giles thought.

“Hello, Xander.”

“Jesus, Giles, what’s up with the disappearing act? Not to mention the pissing off the Watchers act?”

Giles rubbed at his forehead. “So you’ve heard about that?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, the Watchers called Jake and wanted to know where the hell you and Spike were, and then Jake started asking us where you went to. But we didn’t know. And anyway, Dawn just about ripped him a new one when she learned he’d sold Spike out, and everyone else was pretty ticked off about it too. Even me, ‘cause I’m not Bleachboy’s biggest fan, but Christ! That was cold. So we were mad at Jake and he was mad at us ‘cause he thought we were hiding you—which we would have done, by the way—and we were worried about you, and…it was a thing.”

As Giles listened to the boy babble, he realized he’d missed hearing that. And he was pleased that they’d been concerned about him and even that they had been appalled about what McAdams did to Spike. He even smiled a bit, for what felt like the first time in ages. “Thank you for your concern, Xander. I’m fine. But how did you find me?”

“Willow did. I think it was a combination of good hacking and a little magic. She wasn’t gonna call you, though. She said you needed time.”

“Then why have you rung me?”

There was a brief pause. “Um. ‘Cause Willow has this idea, and I’m not so sure it’s a very stellar idea, but she’s pretty stuck on it. Tara’s kinda going along with the plan, and Dawn’s…Dawn doesn’t know about it. Anya says not to do it. I thought it’d be good to hear from the voice of reason.”

“And that’s me? What about Mr. McAdams?”

“I told you—there was a thing. We’re not speaking to each other anymore. He still has that stupid office but he’s on his own, and I don’t think he’s getting much done. Things have been pretty Hellmouthy again here lately.”

Giles shouldn’t have felt satisfied about that.

“All right, Xander. So what’s this scheme of Willow’s?”

Another pause, this one longer. And then, his words so rushed Giles could barely understand them, Xander said, “Willow thinks that Buffy’s in hell and she found this resurrection spell and she thinks we should try to raise Buffy from the dead.”

Giles’s stomach lurched. He wished he’d misheard, but he knew he hadn’t, and a part of him wasn’t even all that surprised. In as even a voice as he could manage, he said, “Xander, resurrection spells are dark magic. They’re quite…problematic.”

“So you say no.”

Giles took a few breaths. “I say no.”

“I’m not sure Willow will listen, though. She’s pretty stuck on this idea, and she can be awfully stubborn.”

“Then you shall have to dissuade her.”

“I’m not sure I can. Can’t you talk to her? Or better yet, come back to California. We need you.”

They were pleasant words to hear, but Giles knew they weren’t true. “You’re adults now, Xander. You can manage your own affairs.”

“I don’t feel very grown-up,” Xander replied in a small voice.

“You want to know a secret? Most of the time, neither do I.”

They talked for a short time after that, and Xander tried again to persuade Giles to return, but Giles was steadfast in his refusal. They did need to learn to manage crises themselves, and in any case, Giles wasn’t at all certain he’d be able to change Willow’s mind, even if he were there in person. He wasn’t even certain if he wanted to.

 

 

***

 

The next morning, he awoke to the wonderful smell of sausages. For a few minutes, he lay sleepily in bed, remembering how his grandfather would cook for him sometimes, when Giles had been up late studying. But then it occurred to his groggy mind that his grandfather was very long since dead, and that no such scent should be coming from Giles’s kitchen. He stumbled out of bed and opened the bedroom door.

“Morning, Rupert,” Spike said without turning around. He was putting the teakettle on the cooker. “Brekkie will be ready in a mo.”

Giles goggled for a few moments before he found his tongue. “What are you _doing_?”

“For a smart bloke, you often ask that question when the answer’s obvious. How do you fancy your eggs?” Spike turned and looked at him expectantly.

“You’re cooking me breakfast?”

“Some for myself as well. I fancy human food, now and then, you know.”

“But…but…why are you here?” Giles felt as if he ought to sit down, so he did, collapsing heavily into a kitchen chair.

“You said I could stay.” Spike brought two plates to the table and set one in front of Giles before taking the other seat. The plate contained a proper fry-up: sausage and scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, grilled tomato slices, two triangles of toast smeared with marmalade.

Giles looked down at it in astonishment. “I didn’t have all this food here.”

Spike shrugged. “I went shopping.”

Giles blinked. “You went….” And he had a clear mental image of Spike pushing a trolley up and down the aisles of Tesco, his regrown and rebleached hair shining under the fluorescent lights.

Spike’s own plate contained only a few rashers of bacon, and he picked one up in his fingers and bit at it. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

And because the situation was already so strange, and because the food did smell wonderful, Giles obeyed. It tasted as good as it smelled, and a small moan may have escaped him.

Spike grinned. “’M a bloody brilliant cook, yeah?”

Giles nodded. “How?” he asked with his mouth full.

“When I was a boy, we had this cook who’d been with the family for years, but she’d grown a bit senile by then, and her food was horrible. I learned how out of self-preservation. ‘Course, I’ve had to update my methods, and I have to say, it’s a good bit easier now, with gas cookers and Teflon pans and all.”

Spike got up to pour the tea, and Giles continued to eat, reflecting that this might possibly be one of the stranger conversations he’d had. Then he was too busy eating and drinking to say much more, and Spike nibbled on his own bacon and watched with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

When Giles’s plate was empty and his stomach almost uncomfortably full, he pushed his chair back slightly. “Do you intend to stay here?”

Spike lifted his chin defensively. “Might do.”

But Giles shook his head. “You can’t.”

Spike actually flinched, then worked his jaw. “But you said…. Why not?”

“I know I offered. But—”

“I can make myself useful, you know. Don’t have to just lie about and do nothing. Even if you won’t finally give in and shag me, I can cook, as you can see, and I can—”

“It’s not that.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Then what? Can’t abide living with a demon, is it?”

“No, Spike, it’s not that either.” He sighed, and then told the truth. “If you stay, I’ll hurt you. I won’t mean to, perhaps, but….” He swallowed. “I will.”

Spike gaped at him. “_You_’ll hurt _me_? What the bloody hell are you on about, Rupert?” He slapped his chest. “Demon, remember? Don’t you mean you’re afraid I’ll get the sodding chip out and hurt you?”

Giles looked at Spike for a long moment, then stood. He walked into the bedroom and pulled his first aid kit out from under the bed. He removed a small plastic box from the kit and brought it back to Spike, who was looking at him in puzzlement. He handed the box to Spike.

“What’s this?” Spike asked.

“See for yourself.”

Spike frowned and opened the box. When he saw what was inside, his mouth fell open. After a very long silence, and in a shaky voice, he said, “Is this…?”

“I removed it the night I took you from the Council. You had a hole in your head, and I could actually see a bit of it protruding. I’d hoped I could get it out without doing too much damage. It appears as if I succeeded.”

“But…why?” If vampires were capable of going into shock, Spike would have.

“It was…an abomination.”

“But without it…. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start killing again?”

“If you do, then you can be hunted and dusted. That’s only fair. But I expect you can make your own decisions about whether to return to your old ways.”

Spike shook his head. “Still no soul, remember?”

“I don’t even know what that means anymore. I believe you’re capable of making moral decisions. As capable as any human, in any case. Not that that necessarily means a great deal.”

Spike still held the box. “What did you mean, about hurting me?”

“It’s what I do.” Giles walked to the window and looked out at another rainy day. He was beginning to long for the sun. “It’s what I’ve always done,” he said quietly.

Spike came up behind him so quietly Giles didn’t realize it until the vampire spoke from only inches away. “What do you mean, Rupert? Physical pain? Don’t mind a bit of that. It’s like chili peppers in your food—heats things up. Besides, I reckon you know from your Watcher studies, vampires fancy a bit of the rough stuff. And I’ve never minded being on the receiving end.”

Giles’s breath caught in his throat. “I meant…. I know you can manage the…corporeal aspects. But the emotional….”

Spike put his strong arms around Giles’s waist and nuzzled against the back of his neck. “Do you trust me not to hunt humans?” he asked, his voice low and deep.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have removed the chip.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“I knew you’d find out on your own, eventually.”

Spike’s hair tickled his skin and made him shiver. “So do you trust me?” Spike asked again.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll trust you not to hurt me.”

“But…sometimes I _want_ to. I want to hurt even those I…those I care about.” Giles felt anguish pool in his chest as he admitted it out loud for the first time.

“And I’ll want to hunt. Doesn’t mean I will. Wanting to do something, being capable of doing something, that’s not the same as doing it, is it?”

“But—”

“You’re not a bloody saint, Rupert! But you’re a good man, and strong. You might bollocks things up now and then. People do. But you’ll do your best nearly all the time, and that’s bloody good enough for me.”

It was still dark and gloomy out. But suddenly, Giles felt as if he were bathed in warmth, and the tightness that had been in his chest for as long as he could recall loosened a bit. He twisted around so that he was face-to-face with Spike, who was looking up at him expectantly.

Spike felt better against him than he’d allowed himself to remember.

“What do you…what do you see yourself being, Spike?”

Spike’s eyes were so very blue. “Your lover. Your boy. Your partner.” He grinned. “The spice in your life.”

“And what would you think if I said I was considering returning to Sunnydale?”

“Thought you said you meant to be back home.”

“I do.”

Spike closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Giles’s. His arms tightened just a bit about Giles’s waist, and Giles found his own arms lifting, encircling Spike’s body, drawing him even closer.

Spike made a small, animal sound. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Let’s go home, then, Rupert.”

 

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End file.
